


Massage

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Massage, Spa Day, Vacation, Yum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:28:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's booked a spa day. Greg has never been to one before, and is not entirely comfortable with what's happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Massage

“Hurts.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that Greg couldn’t see it. “It does not, Gregory. What you are feeling is the removal of pains that you have become so used to that you do not know how to be without them.”

“Ow!”

“Are you fighting?”

There was a pause. “No. Shut up.”

Mycroft closed his eyes again.

“Hey! No thank you!”

With a silent sigh, Mycroft lifted his head and turned to look across at the other table. “Your feet?”

Greg craned his neck to see Mycroft around his masseuse’s body. “I don’t have to!”

“Oh, very well. It’s not like you ever stand for long, anyway.” Mycroft wafted the fingers of his near hand at the woman who had crouched beside Greg’s feet, and was looking at Mycroft for direction. She straightened and bowed, going back to sit near the doorway to the patio.

“Stand a lot more than you do,” Greg muttered.

“I am not suggesting you submit to torture,” Mycroft said, turning away and resting his cheek back on the table. “If you relax, stop fighting it, and just let it happen, you might learn something.”

“I am not going to pick up a new career rubbing the bodies of whatever rich twat slaps some cash at me!”

“Reconsider that statement, as I don’t propose to ever pay you.”

“I just don’t like feeling so...” Greg trailed off, sounding as grumpy and petulant as Mycroft had ever heard him.

“Naked? Exposed? Vulnerable?”

“...Yeah.”

“Afraid you can’t take on these hardened young women, who are clearly well-versed in some deadly and mystical forms of combat, and are here to pickpocket you and leave you for dead beside the road out of town?”

“Maybe.”

“Grow up, Greg.”

“I’ve got grey hair!”

“Then act like it.”

“I am! I hurt all over now!”

Mycroft tried to sigh again, but wound up laughing. “You darling imbecile. Can you please stop?”

“Give us a few minutes, would you, ladies?”

Mycroft lifted his head again and turned to watch Greg as the women filed out. “For goodness’s sake, what is the matter with you?”

“I’m really not enjoying this, Mycroft. I’m really, really not.”

Mycroft propped himself up on one elbow, frowning. “What is it?”

“It’s private.”

“You’ve just sent them out of the room! I think that’s obvious.”

“I mean...it’s like there’s a crowd here. I can’t relax, naked, in a crowd.”

Mycroft glanced around the patio. The beach was private. There were steep, rocky cliffs on either side, a roof above them blocking the view from the windows, and no other appointments booked for the entire day. “Four massage artists and I constitute a crowd?”

“When I’m not wearing anything, yeah. One other person is one too many.”

“You’re lying balls-down on a towel.”

“With my arse up in the air, catching the breeze.”

“This is meant to be more comfortable.”

“Well it isn’t!”

Mycroft frowned at him, thinking for a moment. “Ahh. Give me a moment.” 

Greg watched warily as Mycroft rolled over, hopped off his table, caught his balance against it as his oily feet slid on the tiles, and walked over to the doorway. He spoke to the unseen staff waiting outside, and then returned, leaning against his table, facing Greg. 

“Stand up and get one of those towels around you,” Mycroft suggested, folding his arms.

“Why?” Greg clamped the edge of the towel against his waist and pulled it around him before rolling awkwardly off the table. Mycroft reached out and caught him with a hand against his shoulder.

“Careful, Greg. Your feet may not be oiled, but you should still take care.”

“Whoa.” Greg stayed in a crouch, his eyes wide and blinking.

“Headrush?”

“Among other things.” He rolled his shoulders experimentally. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

“You’re beginning to see. Good.” Mycroft helped him to straighten slowly. 

“Why are we standing up?” 

Even as Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, two large men came into the room, wearing grey linen shorts and T-shirts. Greg stared at them warily, his fingers clenched around the ends of his towel, behind him. “’Scuse, please,” one of them said, coming to stand near Greg at the head of the table.

“Wh-what is...?”

Mycroft guided him aside, and the men lifted Greg’s table and turned it 90 degrees, the head now in the center of the room. Then they crossed and did the same to Mycroft’s, the heads of the tables now beside each other. They turned and gave Mycroft a slight bow, which he returned, and left, passing the masseuses in the doorway.

“Now what?” Greg asked, backing against the half-wall at the edge of the patio.

“Come on. Get back on your table,” Mycroft said, taking his arm and guiding him slowly forward, then setting his hands on Greg’s hips, holding the towel in place for him as he climbed back up.

“I don’t understand how this is going to help,” Greg said, arranging himself but staying propped up on his elbows as Mycroft lifted himself up.

“Lie down,” Mycroft told him. “Let go of your towel.”

“But all that...”

“Shhh,” Mycroft murmured, his eyes sliding closed again as he lowered himself onto his table.

Greg realised that they would now be looking at each other, their faces only a few inches apart. It didn’t comfort him much as far as the nudity, but as far as incentives to lie down went, there were few better. He flattened himself out, feeling Mycroft’s sigh against his forehead, watching as the blue eyes slid open again. He said something Greg didn’t understand, but knew was directed at the staff.

Something soft was placed on Greg’s waist, and he arched up in reflex, looking back. He paused. The bundle of white fabric was being unfolded across him, and getting thinner as it did. Then the cool feather-lightness of it touched his shoulders and he let out a surprised moan.

Mycroft smiled without opening his eyes. “You see? An acceptable compromise?”

Greg squirmed a little under the smooth slippery silk, feeling it stick against the oil on his skin. “Jesus. I may never get up again.”

“Wonderful.” Mycroft’s eyes slid open again to look at him, smiling peacefully. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Do you know what this feels like?” Greg asked, still writhing a bit, enjoying the light movements as the breeze stirred the silk. “Have you ever done this?”

“Not precisely, but close enough. Now may we continue?”

Greg nodded silently, closing his eyes as the hands came back to work on him. After a few long moments, though, he couldn’t resist peeking. Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. “Hey.” 

Though it was little more than a whisper, Mycroft opened his eyes again. “Mmm?”

“You didn’t even cover up. Just completely naked when those blokes came in. Letting it all just... dangle, there.”

Mycroft said nothing, but raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t do that, okay? Not that I think you should be ashamed, but... you’re mine. I don’t always want to share, okay?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, letting them drift closed again, smiling. “Gregory. Whatever you please.”


End file.
